


Trails of Ichor and Tears

by orphicthoughts



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece, Andrew as Achilles, Angst, Blood and Violence, Developing Romance, F/F, F/M, Graphic Description, Heartache, M/M, Neil as Patroclus, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sadness, Self-Harm, They deserved better, Torture, Trojan War, War, but with Neil and Andrew, inspired by the Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller, reincarnation...kinda? maybe?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:20:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28004541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphicthoughts/pseuds/orphicthoughts
Summary: Andreás is a name known across Attica and beyond. Birthed by a goddess of the water, Kassandra, he has the blood of the Gods flowing through his veins, making him a powerful and unrivaled warrior. Despite his renowned name, Andreás is rather apathetic in regard to his divine-like potential. He does not care about the fame or the glory or getting involved in the brewing war, not until a dangerously interesting red-head appears in Phthia as an exile to be fostered by King Peleus. Kassandra warns her son from getting too close to the orphan boy, but the bond between the two quickly grows to be as unrivaled as Andreás himself.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 30
Kudos: 55





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! It's me...adding another wip...this one isn't going to be too long, though! But I got the inspiration for this a few months ago while listening to Achilles, Come Down by Gang of Youths. Plus, I'm obsessed with _The Song of Achilles_ by Madeline Miller (highly recommend)!! So, yes, I started thinking of Achilles Andrew and Patroclus Neil and this is the result. 
> 
> With that being said, it's not going to be an exact copy of the Trojan War or _The Song of Achilles_. I'm adding or leaving out some elements as I see fit to have the story fit more into "my vision" and the AFTG characters. HOWEVER, the Trojan War is still dark and sad and bloody. There might be some triggering stuff in here. I tried to tag it appropriately, but please let me know if you feel like I need to add anything. I'll be updating tags as I go. 
> 
> Also, I tried to Greek-ify the names to some extent, but again, not everything's perfect. I've never written something like this before and it's honestly just something I wanted to write out of pure enjoyment for myself. And it yall enjoy it, then that makes me even happier
> 
> Some WARNINGS for this chapter include SELF-HARM/SUICIDE ATTEMPT, so it's that's triggering to you, please skip past it. Thank you and enjoy the story I enjoyed crafting :)

A young woman stumbles across the wet sand, her blonde locks whipping around her face in the fierce wind. The lightning storm flashing in the distance brings a stifling heat and electricity that sits heavily in the humid air. There is something stirring in the depths of those inky waves. The raging ocean surface flashes white with the strikes of lightning and roars in tandem with the crackling thunder. The woman lets out a dry sob that’s unintelligible amongst the wild ocean and storm. The gods are angry. She cannot help but think about what her brother said to her earlier: _“What have you done? The Gods have shown me what your foolish actions have cost us! What they will cost us!”_

The woman presses her palm against her stomach. She can feel a noticeable bump underneath her palm—invisible to most, but she _knows_. So, does her brother and the Gods. The blonde lets out another cry and fists her hand in the fabric of her chiton over her growing stomach. In her other hand, she adjusts her grip on the stone knife. The great expanse of the sky flashes bone white and bellows in response. 

_Do it. Fix the problem you created, you senseless naive girl._

_They_. Her brother had said _they_. And even before, she felt something different…something _greater_ growing inside of her.

One, she could manage perhaps, but two…without a male caregiver…she could not manage—she _would not_ put her family through the shame of having to support a lone mother with two children and nothing to show of it, especially with a young child of their own. 

Matilda collapses to her knees. The sand gives in and she melts. Her chiton ripples around her, snapping violently in the wind. The waves crashing and rolling on the shore combined with the rumbling and grating thunder makes everything sound like static to her ears. Her head is filled with ocean foam and murky clouds.

“Forgive me,” she weeps towards the moving darkness. Rain begins to fall from the skies, coating her already wet cheeks. 

She lets out a shaky breath and looks back down at her hand that holds the knife. Her hand trembles around it and she tightens her grips, willing herself to stop shaking. She brought this on herself. She needs to make things right—for her family and for the Gods. 

The young woman does not quite understand now, but her reckless actions have brought something mighty into this world. 

Her breathing turns into quick, panicked pants as she brings the knife directly in front of her body. She wraps her other hand around the rough handle and points the unrefined blade towards her stomach—towards what is growing inside of her. She tips her head back and lets her eyes slide closed. The rain slides down her cheeks and neck, pastes her clothing to her skin. 

She clenches her jaw and cries out as she drives the dagger into her stomach, spilling her own blood across the sand. A choked gasp makes its way out of her throat, alarm and pain overwhelming her. Her hands spasm and instinctively release the knife. She feels the wetness seeping through her chiton and across her stomach and upper thighs. The stomach aches. However, when she looks down, there’s no blood. 

She woman prods at her stomach with unsteady hands. The ache is gone. There’s no wound. No blood. She presses harder, more firmly, the panic building to new amounts. The sky continues to roar and roar in fury. 

The young woman scrambles to pick up the knife again—she has done wrong, but she is a devoted woman and will right those wrongs, she must; this is a sacrifice the Gods require—but the stone tool is gone. She whips her head across, the wild wind whistling in her ears— _find it, finish it_. The knife is nowhere to be seen. 

She lets out a moan of despair and pushes herself to her feet, stumbling towards the ocean. It is when her bare feet touch the water that she notices the woman standing in front of her. Matilda stumbles back, blinking the wetness from her eyes. 

The woman in front of her is…more than a woman. She is radiant and ethereal in her description. Even in the dark and violent night, she emits a sort of luminance that both draws Matilda in and warns her to keep her distance. The woman’s hair trails down the gentle slope of her body golden waves, making Matilda’s locks pale in comparison. Eerily bright blue-green eyes train on the young woman, making her shiver under the intense gaze.

“Who—who are you? What do you want?” She demands. The tremor in her voice is audible, however, even amongst the storm. 

The ethereal woman’s gaze lowers steadily under it rests on the young woman’s slightly protruding stomach. 

“Give him to me,” she says. Her voice is soft and musical, yet it reaches the young woman’s ears clearly despite all the surrounding noise. 

Matilda’s hands unconsciously creep around to cradle her stomach, where again, an increasing ache is growing. 

“I—I do not—“

“Give him to me,” the mystical woman repeats. “You do not even want him.”

The young woman realizes she has slowly begun walking towards the woman. The saltwater now laps against her caves. Her chiton is fully soaked and plastered against her body. Her hair is hanging around her face is dripping strands. And despite the warm air, she’s shaking. 

“I will offer you this mercy. You will live and raise a single child. In five years' time, you will come across a great fortune. Where that will take you will be dependent on your actions. All I ask is that you give me _him_. He is mine.”

The young woman shakes her head. Lightning flashes in the distance and for a moment she believes she sees the ethereal being’s face crease with rage. As quick as the strike of lightning, her face is back to being cold and impassive. Her eyes are so expressive. 

“ _Give him to me!_ ” The figure roars with the thunder. 

“Yes! _Yes_!” The young woman cries back, crumbling under the power and the pressure. She sinks to her knees once again. The waves lap against her upper chest. She squeezes her eyes shut, waiting.

This is a sign. This is an act of the Gods. It must be. They have given her another chance. They know she is loyal and remorseful. She will do better. She _will_.

A sharp pain blooms in her womb and a wail tears its way out of her throat. When she opens her eyes again, she is back on the sand. The young woman sits up. The ocean is calmer; the skies are clearer. And she is not quite sure how, but she feels lighter. 

Somewhere else in this realm, Kassandra rests her palms over her stomach, over the being growing in her womb. She can _feel_ him. He is strong and healthy, despite just now being united with her. He _is_ her son. After Zeus’s pursuit of her and Hera’s discovery of it, the latter goddess cursed Kassandra with a barren womb, saying she would never be able to have a prosperous child to celebrate. Kassandra tried and pleaded and searched. She beseeched Zeus, saying he must help her. And now, decades later, he led her to her true child. Her _son_. He was perfect and _hers_. 

She would name him _Andreás_. The name is fitting. Kassandra knows he will grow to be everything his name entails: manly, brave, courageous, and strong. _He is her son_ , and no one would take that from her.


	2. Part Two

Netan’el had not meant to kill him. Though, he is not sorry it happened. Many people underestimate and torment him due to his small stature and absence of caring authority figures. He never knew his mother and his father views him as an annoying burden he has been forced to tolerate. Hence, when his father learns of Netan’el’s actions, he has no qualms with meeting the demands of the grieving noble family. His father exiles him; his decision is unwavering and emotionless. He sends Netan’el away with only the clothes on his back. The young boy is leaving behind more than his home. He is leaving behind his lineage and wealthy status. He is not sad. Unfeeling is perhaps the best word to use in this situation. 

He does not know where he is to be sent. It is overseas. He uncovers as much when he is brought to a port. He is on the water for just over a day before reaching his destination. Once he sees the familiar cliffside towering behind the ports, he knows where he is. Phthia. He was brought here many times when he was younger. The latest visit was only a year ago when his father dragged him here to act as an offering for an accord. The meeting was unsuccessful and he spent the rest of their visit irritated and vicious. Netan’el has seen enough of Phthia during those visits to know that they _would_ agree to take him in. Not out of benevolence. No, Netan’el is here as pure entertainment. 

What most people see when they think of or visit Phthia is sandy white beaches, pristine greenery, and orchards full of fresh fruit, white marbled buildings with beautiful architecture. It is a land of luxury and plentifulness. That is if you are on the right side of it. Naten’el learned quickly that nothing can be wholly good. Phthia has just as much dark and savageness as it has light and refinement. One just needed to know where to look. And his father did. 

Netan’el is lead up the stairs carved into the cliffside and through the grand city of Phthia. He’s brought to the golden and lively beach where the palace of King Peleus sits. He is further brought to the entryway of the throne room where he is told King Peleus is otherwise occupied, so Netan’el will be meeting with the king’s heir, Andréas, and that he is to be on his best behavior. Netan’el has heard of Andréas before—anyone residing in the region of Greece has. 

When he is sent into the throne room, he sees a flash of gold disappear around one of the corners in the rear of the room. It happened so quickly, Netan’el might have imagined it. Everyone in Phthia is gold and bright at first glance. In the center of the throne room, however, stands someone who is not Andréas. Instead, there is a single woman. She appears slight and pale upon first glance, but he spots the years of developed muscle, the way she holds herself. Still, he is surprised a woman would be allowed to handle such a duty as this—not that he is important. A woman alone in the throne room, delegated is—

“Hello,” the woman says, smiling. “The King and Andréas are engaged in other duties at the moment, so I will be the one welcoming you. I understand that your father sent you here. Your name is Netan’el, is it not?

“Yes,” he answers quietly. 

“Do you want to keep it?”

Netan’el looks up and stares. _Keep it?_

“Your name,” she clarifies, gently, patiently. 

Netan’el startles and wrings his fingers in the scratchy material of the Chiton he was given when his father sent him away. It is made from cheap and poor material, a clear sign of what his father now thought of him, what he had always thought of him. 

Changing his name…as appealing as it sounded, it would mean nothing. A new name would not change his current position nor his fate. He knew where he would end up. His father had made sure of it when sending him here. 

“No, thank you.”

The woman gave him a small, tight smile that looked nearly like a wince. She introduced herself as Renée and led him to his quarters. She explained his duties and the schedule. Netan’el listened silently, soaking everything in and observing his surroundings. 

He tried to keep his head low and stay in line. However, it was only on his second day in the palace that Netan’el got involved in some trouble. Some older boys who needed a boost of self-confidence? superiority? manliness? They singled Netan’el out because he was small and quiet. The group of them—all the boys generously fostered by King Peleus—were on the beach one day collecting shells for noblemen jewelry and other decorative items. 

Netan’el was kneeling by the shore and sifting through the sand. The waves approached him gently and kissed his bare toes. The water was so much warmer and healthier here—nothing like the water back where his father was. It was drab and has the spring-chill at all times of the year. Netan’el’s fingers just brushed a full sand dollar when he felt two other pairs of hands grab his biceps. Netan’el immediately drops the basket of shells and begins to squirm. His tiny size and speed do aid him in easily evading or slipping away from threats. These boys, however, curse and grunt but keep a tight hold. They walk him out a few feet deeper until the waves are brushing up against his stomach. Then, he is underwater. 

The water is unforgiving as it rushes into his nose, his mouth, his eyes, his ears. Netan’el tries to stop it—stop them—but the more he struggles, the more his breath abandons him. His eyes rise above the waves periodically as he struggles. He hears their laughter. Not just the two boys who grabbed him, but all the rest on the beach. Netan’el tries to fight back, but there are too many. No one cares what happens to a small servant boy. 

Suddenly, the laughter stops and he is being pulled upright. He gasps in the crisp sea air. It burns his lungs. He inhaled too quickly and now he is coughing up the saltwater that remains in his lungs back into the ocean. When his coughing fit subsides and he has enough air back in his lungs, he hears a deep voice snarling. 

“—will be punished. Leave!”

Netan’el hears the boys running away. The water splashes around their legs and the area is now much quieter now that they are gone. The waves gently lapping u against the shore is the only sound to be heard. A drastic change from Netan’el’s predicament just a moment ago. He looks up through his soaked strands of hair that now have fallen to cover his eyes—the squabble forced him to his knees. Someone must have pulled him closer to shore because even squatted down, the highest point the waves touch is his waist. Netan’el squints his eyes against the sun, but then he realizes the sun is behind him and he isn’t staring at the sun but rather a person. 

No, this cannot be a person. He is too…too _great_ to be an ordinary individual. The man is young, a bit older than Netan’el, however. He is strong and healthy. One can tell that just from looking at him. He is someone of high status. The chiton he is wearing is loose, yet fitted—made from fine material. It drapes over his muscled body perfectly. He is a warrior; he must be. Every inch of his body looks to be carved with fine detail. Not an inch of fat or imperfection on him. He is golden and crafted for something greater than what the rest of us humans are crafted for. 

No, humanity is not crafted. Humanity is produced haphazardly. People like _this_ are _crafted_. They are crafted carefully and with a destiny in mind. 

His face is just as sharp as the rest of him. High, defined cheekbones; full pinks lips; a straight nose; arched brows. His eyes are the same golden color as the rest of him. As with his hair. It it pulled back out of his face now, but some strands still face forward to frame his face like golden spun threads of silk. 

And although Netan’el’s never seen him before, he knows this is Andréas, the one everyone knows by name. He is half-God, half-divine—and anyone who sees him will know that. He is too extraordinary to be human, and Netan’el has not even seen him fight yet.

“Are you all right?” 

His voice is smooth and deep. It waves other Netan’el as easily as the warm ocean waves. Netan’el opens his mouth to respond, but his throat gives an ache and he is thrown into a coughing fit yet again. He recovers quickly and notices that Andréas is a step closer, watching and waiting for a response. 

“I am fine,” Netan’el says. His voice sounds scratchy as if he spent the last several hours screaming. He clears his throat. “Thank you.”

_Thank you for stepping in. No one else was going to. I would have died here in the ocean._

“I heard you,” Andréas says, which Netan’el thinks is odd because he could barely hear himself over his thrashing and the other boys’ laughter. Andréas eyes flicker out to the horizon, where the ocean meets the sky. “Stay away from the water from now on if you can help it.”

"I do not think it was the water that was out to get me," he responds before he fully realizes what he is saying. His cheeks quickly pinken once the words are out and he jerks his head up to...apologize? Say something? 

He expects Andréas to be annoyed, perhaps. His mouth and the words that came out of it always annoyed his father. However, Andréas is not annoyed. The corner of his lips is quirked up. Netan’el is positively aware that he is staring. 

“Fair observation. However, you never know what may happen going forward," Andréas says, and is he....teasing Netan'el. Before Netan'el can respond to it, Andréas is speaking again. 

"Moreover, you have seaweed,” Andréas explains as he reaches out and brushes the green pieces from Netan’el’s drenched locks, “in your hair.”

Netan’el flushes and instinctively brings his hand up to touch his hair. His hand bumps into Andréas’s hand and he pulls it away quickly. He flushes even further and sputters out an apology. Andréas looks amused, which only causing the Netan’el’s embarrassment to further flare-up. 

“Do not overexert yourself for the next few days,” Andréas says. Netan’el only now notices how the waves seem to part around him, barely brushing and wetting Andréas’s clothing. “If you discover you are easily out of breath, go to the healer.”

Netan’el would likely not do that, but he still nods. Andréas takes a step back. 

“I have to go,” he says, “What is your name?”

“Netan’el,” he says, suddenly breathless.

Andréas nods. He does not say anything more before turning around and running back down the beach until he disappears from sight. 

Netan’el sits there in the waves for a moment, thinking. However, the waves quickly become higher and harsher, pushing him roughly forward and splashing up against his face, so he picks himself up and goes back inside the palace. 

Several more incidents happen. The other boys are jealous. Netan’el hears them whispering ‘Why would Andréas stick up for him?’ and ‘I have been here much longer. I deserve the recognition, not him.’ It is all foolish and trivial, but Netan’el cannot alter what others are feeling and thinking. The attacks continue to happen, and it’s not just him getting caught in the middle of the quarrels. Other items are getting damaged; duties are being neglected; time wasted. After a week, the taskmaster, the man put in charge of all of the boys, drags him off to the side with a harsh grip. 

“You,” he spits, “are too much trouble. You embarrass us in front of King Peleus and his heir Andréas. Misfortunate follows wherever you go, maybe you can be useful elsewhere.”

Netan’el does not quite understand what the man is referring to until he is being shoved into a room with awaiting company. It is dark outside and the room is poorly lit, but Netan’el recognizes the men—boys—that stand in front of him. 

“Your father finally decided you were of no use, did he? About time he contacted us. I have already spoken with the King and it seems like you have been causing quite a ruckus here, as well, Netan’el. Perhaps, you can do better at The Nest,” Rikós sneers.

For the first time since arriving in Phthia, Netan’el feels cold. “I will not go with you,” he says, sounding braver than he feels. 

“You have no choice,” Rikós shoots back, satisfaction clearly painted on his face. Kévin is silent next to him but painted on his face is a look of pure horror. Netan’el supposes that is not entirely out of poor taste. The last time the three of them were together was when Netan’el’s father took him to The Nest. Rikós and Kévin were there. Netan’el’s father joined his companions—Rikós family—and dragged all three of them—Rikós, Kévin, and Netan’el—down to the best seats in The Nest to watch the show. The Nest, to put it simply, is a gladiator pit on the outskirts of Phthia. The shows were never nice to watch. 

Netan’el knows choice is something he lost along with his title when he was exiled by his father. Although he would argue that he had little choice before then, as well. Netan’el tries to run, but Rikós is waiting for it. The company Rikós brought with him, likely his uncle’s men, snag Netan’el before he can make it down the hallway. He screams as they drag him away, but anyone that hears or sees him turns the other way. Of course, they would. Who wants to get involved with Rikós’s family. 

_Someone, anyone, hear me_ , he pleads. His calls go unanswered and he is hauled to where he knew he would end up since arriving in Phthia—The Nest. 

They take him below the ginormous stadium where it’s dark and damp and stuffy and disease-ridden. He hears yelling in the distance, but the space is so vast and serpentine and murky that he cannot tell his way around. He supposes that is the point. 

Netan’el meets The Master first—Rikós’s uncle. Netan’el does not know his true name—only The Master. It gives him the additional power he so clearly needs in order to feel like an important member of society. Netan’el tells him as much and then is beaten into the stone floor with the weighted wooden cane The Master uses for appearances. 

When Netan’el is barely conscious and wheezing against the floor, one of The Master’s men takes out a knife. Netan’el immediately wants to run, but his muscles are frozen, dead—like the rest of him is soon to be. However, rather than cutting him open, The Master steps forward and pulls him up by his hair. The man with the knife precedes to cut off all of his hair, lock by lock until Netan’el is left with a patchy, nearly-bald haircut. One cannot even tell his hair is naturally red anymore. With it cut this short, it looks brown. 

The Master barks something in another tongue quickly. Netan’el’s mind is fading fast, even though his body tells him to fight and stay alert. He is picked up once more and dragged from the office half-conscious. Kévin has avoided his gaze this entire time, but he helps support Naten’el after the beating. Netan’el’s bare feet are useless. If it were not for Kévin, he would collapse. 

“You know how to fight,” Kévin hisses in his ear. “I have seen it. Keep your mouth shut and your head down and _fight_ , Netan’el. Listen to Jean.”

Then, Netan’el is shoved in a room—a cage; it is a cage—and left alone in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know not everything is accurate with history and names and speaking and such, but just roll with it haha. I want this to be somewhat reminiscent of Ancient Greece, but I'm not worrying too much because this is self-indulgent for me. I hope yall like it too! so Andrew & Neil met in this chapter!...and then things went downhill, but they still interact! Don't worry. 
> 
> Anywho, I hope yall enjoyed it. Feel free to leave a kudos, comment, bookmark, follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/emptyambrosia), etc. 
> 
> thanks for reading!
> 
> \- orth


	3. Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: suicidal thoughts, descriptive gore and violence

Netan’el found that he is not alone in that cage. There is someone else in there with him—Jean is his name. Netan’el supposes this is the Jean Kévin was talking about. He appears to be around Netan’el’s age, perhaps a year or two older. He is definitely taller and larger than Netan’el—most people are, however. When Netan’el was first pushed into the cage, Jean takes one look at him—it is a long look—before turning away. He does not look at or talk to Netan’el again, not until Netan’el is called by a passing guard. 

“You. The small one. Time to perform.”

Netan’el must take too long to respond because the man wrenches open the cell door and drags Netan’el out. Jean’s gaze follows him as he leaves. Netan’el is brought down the winding, dark corridors that keep going and going. The noise in his ears keeps building, likely due to his pounding heart and the roaring he hears growing louder up ahead. The ground above him trembles along with his hands. He does not bother asking where the man is taking him. Deep down he knows the answer and he knows the man will not humor him with a response. 

He expects to see Rikós or The Master or Kévin in the new room they shove him in. None of them are to be seen. However, other men with impassive expressions are in the room. They step forward and begin stripping him of his ratty clothing without preamble. Netan’el jerks away from their cold hands and they bark at him to stay still. When he does not listen, they smack him. He should not be surprised when other people lay their hands on him, especially to deliver harm. 

“If you want to perform without armor, continue with the rebellious attitude.”

Netan’el pushes himself back up but takes off his clothing himself. He does it with unsteady hands while the other watch placidly. They hand him another poorly-made chiton and armor to strap on over it. When Netan’el cannot put it all on fast enough—he does not even know _how_ —the other men cut in. They bring him to a display of weapons. He stares much too long because they threaten to drag him out without any weapons, either. He grabs a small shield and a xiphos sword. His father used to weld xiphos swords in their friendly little spars, except their spars were never friendly or little. Their spars were not truly _spars_ either. Netan’el walked away from those sessions with many new scars but also more knowledge about fighting. 

Netan’el is brought up a long set of stairs until the clay becomes weathered rock and weathered strong becomes cleanly laid stone blocks. The shouting and cheering get louder—louder than anything Netan’el’s ever heard. He sees the light in the distance—for the first time in days. It is blinding and he has to squint his eyes against the onslaught of it. The men continue to push him forward, however, and the light and the screaming envelop him. It is not a comforting embrace. 

When he opens his eyes, he finds that he is still in a room—a cell. There is an iron door in front of him. He is alone again. The men backed out of the room and sealed the door shut behind them. Netan’el faces forward again and tightens his grip on the xiphos. He can see beyond the iron door—it is the arena. He sees the sandy floor and the few obstacles. There are likely trap doors hidden beneath the sand. Netan’el knows as much from the times he came here with his father. Then, he hated watching the show from the audience. Now, as the performer, he feels utterly horrified. 

He tries to tell himself to be calm and focus, but all he can think about is what is going to happen in a few moments. Netan’el will be released into a huge arena with another sad soul fighting for their life. Thousands of eyes will be on them, watching gleefully as they cut one another down. He is going to be sick. 

Just then, the iron door opens. The audience’s screams intensify and the drums begin. All the noise translates into an even ringing in Netan’el’s head. 

“Move,” one of the men snarls from behind him when Netan’el stays put after the door has fully opened. His feet will not listen, not that he even wants to go out there. The men end up shoving him out. The iron gate drops down behind him, trapping him in the arena. He knows the only way out is to win. And to win…

Netan’el turns and finds his competitor. A man, slightly bigger than himself, older, stronger maybe. Netan’el can bet he is faster. The man is snarling at him. Netan’el wonders if this is his first time in the arena. Netan’el does not want to hurt him. He does now want to strike, but the man makes that choice for him by lunging first. Netan’el is right; he is faster. He slips out of the way, avoiding the shining blade of the other man’s weapon. The audience howls in response. 

Netan’el is breathing must too quickly and heavily for the amount of exertion he has done. He does not have a moment to collect himself, however, because the man is turning and swinging directly at him once again. Netan’el’s eyes widen and he brings up his shield, more out of instinct than anything. He is lucky he brought up the arm covered by his shield and not his other one, which is defenseless. 

The man uses his other arm, suited with a shield as well, and aims for Netan’el’s side. Out of panic, Netan’el uses his only free arm to counter that. The crafted shield rams into the bone of his forearm painfully and he cries out, stumbling away. The audience eats it up, hooting and hollering. The man bathes in the encouragement and has the gall to turn and smile. Netan’el grits his teeth. _Definitely_ not his first time. 

Netan’el steadies himself once again and faces down his opponent, who is grinning and waiting. He charges first this time, acts as if he’s going right, and then goes left. He is fast enough that even if the man was expecting it, he could not react fast enough. Netan’el swipes his xiphos, remembering his father’s lessons. His opponent brings down his own sword just quickly enough, but the deflection sends him stumbling back. Netan’el does not bask in the glory as his opponent had. He pounces and pushes the man backward. 

The man is larger and likely has more experience, but Netan’el is quick and has a savageness that has been bred into him. He advances, completely unrelenting. Netan’el focuses on his opponent only. He blocks off the cheers and the building crescendo of the drums. So it makes sense that he honestly did not see the pit that had opened up behind his opponent. It seems his opponent did not notice either. Netan’el pushes and pushes and does let up because _‘you are no weakling are you, boy! You will not embarrass me!’_

Suddenly, a look of pure panic and fear overtake his opponent’s face, which makes Netan’el pause because he did not stab him. He did not. However, he sees where the panic comes from a moment later when the man starts to fall backward. Netan’el watches, frozen and focused and confused. The spikes at the bottom of the pit impale the man at multiple points in his body—his leg, his hip, his chest, his arm, his face. 

Netan’el stares much too long, stricken his horror and overrun with adrenaline. The audience is positively losing it. Netan’el does not know how long it takes for him to pull his gaze away. He looks up at the rows and rows and _rows_ of people. He sees their bloodthirsty expressions and thinks that _they_ should be here, in the arena, not watching as spectators. 

Men march into the arena to clean up the mess and take Netan’el back to his cage. Netan’el’s gaze is still scouring through the crowd and it latches onto a familiar face. Even from this distance, he sees Rikós’s smirk and lifts a goblet in a toast. Netan’el looks away. His head is empty—or perhaps, it is too full to function. The men undress him and take his weapons away. They shove him into a bathing room as he numbly scrubs himself clean. No blood touched him during the battle, but he still feels filthy. He washes himself off until his skin is pink and raw—or he would have if the men would have let him. After only a few minutes, however, they pull him out and throw his old chiton back at him. 

When the men toss Netan’el back into his cage, his knees hit the floor right as the vomit comes up his throat. The puke splashes in the dirt around his knees. The men hiss and scurry back, muttering about how disgusting it is down here. They leave quickly, but Netan’el is not left alone. Jean comes over to him and moves the bucket from the corner of the room to directly in front of him right as the second round of vomit comes up Netan’el throat. 

“Let it out,” Jean coaxes. He has an accent, Netan’el notes. His cellmate places his large hand on Netan’el’s shoulder and keeps it there. A heavy, comforting weight. Netan’el is puzzled. This is the same cellmate who would barely look at him, let alone speak to him before. Netan’el does not have the time nor energy to question Jean’s actions, however, because he is leaning forward towards the bucket once again. 

Jean stays by his side until Netan’el finishes getting it all out of his system. His hand stays on his shoulder as Netan’el collapses onto his side and just trembles.

“Why do I feel like this?” Netan’el gasps into the darkness of the cell. 

“This is a normal reaction,” Jean says, “to killing someone.”

Netan’el feels more bile crawling up his throat and Jean seems to sense it. He brings over the bucket once again just in time. 

“I always wondered why there were two,” Netan’el huffs. He sees Jean crack a dry smile. 

“Why are you speaking to me now?” Netan’el asks a while later once the shaking and the vomiting and the dry sobs have stopped. He is left with a heavy sort of numbness. Jean takes a moment to respond. 

“I needed to be sure you were how Kévin said you were. He told me about you, but…I had to see for myself. I cannot fight _for_ you.”

Netan’el ponders Jean’s response. It makes sense. He asks, “How do you know Kévin?”

Jean counters. “How do _you_ know Kévin?”

Neither of them answers that question. Netan’el stays curled up in the corner with the mildewy blankets and keeps imagining the last look on that man’s face when he discovered he was about to die. He does not know how he is to do this. 

Netan’el thinks that is the worst thing—fighting in the arena and watching your opponent realize they have met their end. He is wrong. What is the worst thing is to see Jean dragged out for a “performance,” as they call it. Netan’el sits in the cage and waits and waits and waits. He hears the shouts from the audience—their frenzied cheers as another person is likely cut down. It makes him feel sick. He sometimes crawls over to the corner and hurls in the bucket and then sits back and waits to see if Jean will return this time. The waiting is always painfully slow and slowly painful. 

Jean is strong and smart, but there are others in The Nest who are as well. Everyone here is fighting for their lives, and people will do whatever it takes to survive. Accidents can happen too. Netan’el is convinced his first performance was ended due to an “accident.” An accident he is sure Rikós had something to do with. The Master—it is in his name—he is the master of the arena. What he wants to happen, will happen. If he wants Jean to lose, it does not matter how strong and experienced he is. Jean will lose. 

Netan’el has never been religious, but each time Jean is dragged away, Netan’el sits in the corner and prays to any Gods that may listen for Jean’s safe return. And each time Jean is brought back, Netan’el feels the suffocating grip in his chest ease up. 

*****

“How long have you been here?” Netan’el asks quietly. 

Jean shrugs. “I am not certain. Two years, perhaps.”

Netan’el stares and thinks about being here for that long—stuck in a dark cell with no one or nothing else to do. Perhaps Jean did have other cellmates before. However, they are not here now, which means…Netan’el hunches further in on himself, feeling as though he is invading Jean’s privacy—looking at something—into something—that he should not be. “How have you survived that long?”

Jean lets out a humorless laugh that sends chills down Netan’el’s arms in the darkness and dampness of their cell. “Luck? Perhaps.”

Netan’el stays quiet. Though, he does not think that is the correct answer. Jean is a good fighter. Netan’el has never seen him in the arena, but he always comes back. And if he has been here for two years…

“Can I confess something to you?” Jean asks. He turns his head towards the corner and the shadows cover his face. Netan’el can only see his hands and legs. Jean soon pulls his hands into the darkness, as well. “I do not know if I can keep doing this.”

Jean knows what he is saying. Netan’el understands—the words, not the reasoning behind it. However, he has not been here for years. Jean’s words speak of suicide. If he ceases to fight, he ceases to live. 

Netan’el opens his mouth to say _‘You cannot!’_ because that is what his heart says, but no words come out of his mouth because he knows, logically, that is it not his place to tell Jean what he can and cannot do. Not after two years of The Nest. 

Netan’el curls back into the shadows himself, feeling cold and sad and at a loss for words. 

*****

Netan’el does not know how long he is at The Nest. He and Jean always stay in their little cage. They only leave periodically for _performances_. Down here there is no concept of time. It stays dark. The men in the other cells are usually quiet, too. The cells are quiet and dark and somber. They always know when a performance is approaching. The roaring and the drums can be heard from above. The sound practically vibrates the ground over their heads, raining dust onto them as they sit in their cages in anticipation. 

_How can people cheer for this?_ Netan’el wonders. _How can they act as if they are going to the theatre or watching the Olympics while we are here underneath the ground, shaking with fear, like sheep waiting to be slaughtered?_

Both he and Jean have been led out of their cage to participate in many performances themselves. Thus far, they have always come back. Netan’el does not like to think about the battles in the arena after they have happened. He fights and does what he had to. Surviving here requires one’s full attention. He never takes his eyes off of his opponent—not while the fight is still going on. As soon as the battle ends, however, he does not glance back. He does not want to see the other person cut down—see his work. He does not enjoy it, but the audience eats everything up. They cheer and holler like Netan’el just completed a trick, discovered fire, summoned one of the Gods. It is sick. It _makes him_ sick. 

Just because Jean and Netan’el make it through each time, it does not mean they return to their cage undamaged. Netan’el himself has been physically injured numerous times. He has been slashed and stabbed by swords. Some are minor and sting. Other injuries require stitching that the healers sometimes are too bothered to complete. The men drop off the supplies with a heavily bleeding Netan’el in their cell. Jean, frantic and worried, yet so calm, scoops a shaking Netan’el up into his arms and does his best to stitch up the wound with what he can. Then, they pray it does not get infected. Jean holds Netan’el in his lap and whispers words in his native tongue. Netan’el does not know what he is saying, but he knows it is meant to be reassuring. He falls asleep to Jean’s gentle words and comforting hands before gasping awake sooner after, haunted by the faces of those who have died at his hands. 

Netan’el is also beginning to understand what Jean meant about luck. 

Once while Netan’el was in the arena, one of the trap doors let out a tiger. He watched it pounce on and devour his opponent. The man was screaming as the beast tore his flesh off of him. The audience was ecstatic. And when the men were too slow with retrieving Netan’el—which was purposeful—the tiger went after him. It bit him in the thigh. He remembers very little after that. He was bleeding a lot, had lost a chunk of flesh. He believes he received proper healing assistance in that instance. He does not think he would have survived otherwise. The next thing Netan’el remembers is waking up in his cell next to a red-faced Jean.

He has gained many scars while being in the Nest. Some visible on his body, others affect his mind. Doing what Jean and Netan’el are doing messes with their heads. They cannot sleep without seeing the people they just killed only days ago. It is a new face every few days. Their bodies are tired and they are tired. Netan’el does not know how Jean did this for _two years_. 

_And counting_ , he reminds himself. _It was two years when you arrived…_

_…how long have I been here?_

Netan’el may blackout when he is injured, but he is fully conscious when Jean is brought back bruises and bleeding or unconscious. It is terrifying. More terrifying than the wait because the injury is in addition to that. And the men who transport them back and forth are more worried about blood getting on their clothes than they are about a potentially dying human. 

“He needs treatment!” Netan’el shouts out of their cage when the men dropped Jean off, white-faced and bleeding heavily from his side. Jean was not conscious when they brought him to Netan’el. He cradles Jean close to him, fearful that if he lets go, Jean will float away. “A healer! He will die without one!”

No one comes. They do not care. Jean and Netan’el and the rest of them are circus animals. Mere cattle is what they are. Things to objectify. If one dies, replace it and move on. 

Netan’el pulls Jean closer and shushes his moans of pain. 

“You will be fine,” Netan’el tells Jean quietly. His voice trembles along with his hands as he smoothes one over Jean’s forehead and his short hair. Jean is too pale and too clammy. He shivers violently and is muttering incoherently. Netan’el holds him tighter and presses his cheek against his scalp. He squeezes his eyes shut and ignores the tears that slip down his own cheeks. 

“You will be fine,” he says again. He is telling Jean while convincing himself. “I will not let them take you, Jean. Keep fighting. Please.”

He holds Jean for as long as his partner needs it. Jean’s violent tremors shake Netan’el down to the core. Many times throughout the night, Netan’el thinks Jean stops breathing. He would scramble up and cry out, leaning up and grabbing the water and bandages the guards brought along with Jean—as if that will help any. Miraculously, Jean always gasps awake. His eyes fly open but are dilated and unseeing. Netan’el tries to talk to him. His partner is not lucid, however, and sinks back under. Netan’el allows himself to relax. Only for a moment. It happens several more times throughout the night—Jean stops breathing and Netan’el nearly does, as well. 

Two days later, when Jean’s fever breaks and he opens his eyes to speak an intelligible sentence to Netan’el, Netan’el nearly breaks down crying. Jean just stares at him with silent understanding. He has likely been on both ends of this situation multiple times. 

Netan’el loathes everyone and everything. He understands the reasoning behind Jean’s words now. He does not know if he can keep doing this either. What is the point? 

*****

One day, the guard comes to grab both of them. Netan’el immediately panics and tries to pull away. If it comes down to him and Jean, he knows what his decision will be. He will throw himself into one of the pits as soon as the performance begins. 

Jean snags his hand as Netan’el goes reeling away and squeezes. 

“Stop, _stop_ ,” he hisses as the guards drag them both away. “Look around. Others are being brought up, as well.”

Netan’el stops struggling when he realizes Jean is right. More men are dragging the other cellmates out and following them. 

“What is going on?” 

“I am not certain,” Jean begins. “Sometimes The Master puts on large shows—competitions. He does so when important company is present.”

“Be quiet!” The guards spit and Jean does what he is told. That is part of the reason he has survived as long as he has. 

The two of them get pulled apart when they are getting prepped for the performance. Netan’el changes and collects his weapons mindlessly. He has done this so many times, the movements are muscle memory. 

Jean is right. This is a special performance. There are easily thirty other men in the arena. Netan’el tries to find Jean among them, but he is unable to spot his partner before the drums behind, signaling the beginning of the performance. Netan’el is too busy avoiding swinging swords and jabbing spears to find his partner. He knows Jean will be fine—hopes for it. His partner is a survivor. Netan’el needs to worry about surviving himself. He can find Jean later. 

The arena quickly turns into a bloodbath. Bodies drop and their blood stains the yellow sand. The audience drinks it up and their lust fuels Netan’el’s anger. He still does not like killing others, but he has come to better terms with it at the moment. He still squirms and screams in his sleep in the cell and Jean shushes him and holds him close, his partner kept awake by his own nightmares. 

_This is how it has to be for us_ , Jean whispered to him one night. _I hate it too._

Netan’el hisses as someone’s short sword cuts a long line in his bicep. It is not too deep—the wound. He tries to push forward, but the man steps in front of him, intent on cutting him down. His size, he has found, is somewhat of an advantage here. People understand estimate him because of it. He has found a way to use that to his benefit in the arena. Netan’el waits and lets their assumptions decide their moves for them, and then he strikes and cuts them done in a flash. He flinches as his blade sinks into the man’s soft gut and spins away before his stomach begins to churn. 

Netan’el does now know how many more men he goes through before he spots Jean, his armor splattered with blood. His partner is still fighting ruthlessly. Jean, on the other hand, is tall and strong. He is a different sort of target. And others know he has been in The Nest for a while. 

Netan’el spots the two men Jean is currently fighting and then the third who is sneaking up behind his partner, right into Jean’s blind spot. They are teaming up to take down Jean, but how would they—

Netan’el eyes stray up to the balcony where Rikós and Kévin and The Master sit. _Of course, Rikós_. Today, however, they are not alone—the noble company they are throwing this special performance for it there. Netan’el’s eyes skim over the visitors and he begins to look away when his gaze locks with a familiar pair of golden eyes. They sear into his very being. 

He tears his eyes away and looks back to the fight. Jean has cut down one of the men, but another has taken his place. Netan’el pushes forward and attacks the man sneaking up on Jean’s blind spot. Netan’el manages to push him into a flaming pit where the man screams as flames devour him. He turns, trying to spot his partner again. He finds Jean right as the remaining man he is fighting cuts him across the chest. Netan’el cries out in tandem with Jean. They both stumble—Jean from the blow, Netan’el from the impending lethal strike. The man goes to end it and Netan’el is too far away. He feels all the air leave him. 

_“Jean!”_

The man about to sentence Jean to death is suddenly falling. He is being dragged away by what looks to be...dogs? Netan’el hardly pays any attention. He races toward Jean, dragging his partner back from the fray. The Master must have thought the mass slaughter was not interesting enough because he opened up the traps and let out what was inside of them. 

“Jean!” Netan’el exclaims. “Jean, _Jean_.”

“Get up!” Jean snaps. “Netan’el, _get up!_ ”

Netan’el spots a movement over Jean’s shoulder. It is a man running with a spear. He takes aim and throws it and it takes Netan’el a moment to realize it is aimed at them, or more specifically, Jean. 

Netan’el has a second to react. He twists him and Jean around so that he is in the spear’s trajectory. He sees the moment when realization washes over Jean’s face. It is a split second before the spear sinks into Netan’el’s shoulder. The sound that leaves his mouth is near silent. It is a simple exhale. He blinks and feels fine a moment before a cold feeling overcomes him. He begins to slip and would have fallen to the ground if it were not for Jean holding him up. His partner, always supporting him. 

“Netan’el!” He hears Jean yell. It turns into a whine. “Netan’el! No, no, _no_.”

He is staring at the sky. It is so blue for all the red he has seen. He thinks it quite odd. Jean’s blood-speckled face appears in front of him, blocking the sky, and he thinks, _that is more like it_. 

_“Netan’el. You must stay awake. Please. For me. Come on, little fighter.”_

_‘You are no weakling are you, boy! You will not embarrass me!’_

_I am sorry_ , Netan’el thinks. To whom, he does now know. Jean, definitely. He is leaving him behind. _My luck has run out, Jean. Forgive me for leaving you here alone._

That is the last coherent thought he has before fading under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another heavy chapter. Each chapter keeps getting longer, too. Yet, it is still highly probable that this fic will be longer than 6 parts...so, buckle up. It is still meant to be short, however. But I know this chapter ended in a dark place, but it's not _too_ bad, like the story actually kinda sorta picks up here for a bit...(nervously sweats)
> 
> hope you liked it! If you did, feel free to leave a kudos, comment, bookmark, follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/emptyambrosia), etc. I really appreciate any form of interaction!
> 
> thanks for reading!
> 
> -orth

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed the first part! Neil/Nathaniel will be in the next and it'll be years down the line. Comment, bookmark, leave a kudos, etc. if you liked this chapter! I love hearing from yall and getting interaction :)
> 
> feel free to follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/emptyambrosia)!!!
> 
> thanks for reading!
> 
> \- orth


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